


Ready

by ender4



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ender4/pseuds/ender4
Summary: In the end, Jaskier knows when he's ready.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Ready

**Author's Note:**

> So, I did this. I'm sorry. Please, please don't read this if you might be triggered by suicide or suicidal ideation. This is dark, there is no happy ending. I'm sorry.
> 
> I started wondering what Jaskier was feeling under all of the happy-go-lucky demeanor and then this happened.

Jaskier walked down the mountain alone, his mind clear for what felt like the first time in decades. Since he was a teenager experiencing the first of what his tutors called his ‘dark moods’, and after long years of feeling those moods again and again. He felt sure about what came next, filled with a certainty he’d been struggling against for longer than he could truly remember. 

He always imagined that if he ever came to this point, the catalyst would be, well, catastrophic. Geralt would die, or Jaskier would lose his voice, or his hands would become permanently disfigured; he’d felt certain it would be something that would reshape the central themes and purpose of his life. In the end, it was no such thing. Instead, it was an argument. One which, admittedly, ripped a hole in Jaskier’s heart. But he knew if he met Geralt a few months down the line, they would act as if Geralt’s harsh words never passed between them. That if he wished it, Jaskier could continue his life as it was, with only a slowly healing wound to his pride to show for the events on the mountain.

No, it wasn’t some unforeseeable tragedy that brought him this sense of clarity. He wasn’t going to do this because he’d been rejected, again, by someone he considered to be his best friend.

He’d always had suicidal ideation. At least, since he was old enough to comprehend what ‘taking one’s life’ really meant. He’d purchased the potion he planned to use once he reached town during his last dark mood. He hadn’t known, at the time, if or when he’d ever take it. But he found having the potion brought his a certain peace of mind—knowing he had a way out, if ever he needed it, stored away in a small compartment of his bag. 

A small part of him wanted to wait, to see if this clarity lifted. But he knew unequivocally that his dark moods would always return, and in all honesty—he was tired. He was tired of being in constant battle with his own mind, cycling through periods of despondency and something resembling a tentative hope, only to inevitably have his mind take away any happiness all over again. He knew, without a doubt, that it would not stop until he died.

He was ready. He knew, in his soul, that he was ready. In truth, he’d been ready for some time, but this, the mountain, had been the final push. 

Jaskier had convinced himself for two decades now that Geralt needed him—to change his reputation, to mend his wounds, to give him companionship. But it turned out that he was wrong. Despite knowing he could meet Geralt sometime in the future and go on as if the mountain never happened, he knew the real truth of it. Geralt would pretend it hadn’t happened, allow Jaskier to tag along, simply because it was easier. It was easier to not fight Jaskier’s presence, to tune out Jaskier’s words and songs, and to tolerate his company, than it was to tell him the truth. 

Geralt didn’t need Jaskier. He never had. If he’d ever needed Jaskier in any way, that need was not stronger than his disdain for Jaskier. He hadn’t lost his temper and lashed out unthinkingly. He’d lost control of his emotions because of the depth of his feelings for Yennefer, and he’d allowed the truth to come out. And now that this final illusion had been stripped from Jaskier, he found that his reasons for continuing had been stripped as well. And not because he loved Geralt—though he did, tremendously and without reservation, he could admit that to himself—but because Geralt offered the one thing Jaskier had left to cling to: purpose.

Without Geralt in his life, Jaskier had no purpose. He had no family he cared to know, no other friends, really. All he’d had left was his determination to see the reputation of Witchers change in the hearts of humans. He’d done as well as he could—perhaps his songs would continue to be sung without him. Perhaps they would even gain fame after his death. But he knew he could no longer impose his company on someone who so despised it. And he could not write songs without the very muse that inspired him. Or, well. He didn’t want to.

So there was no more reason for him to wait. There was nothing, no one, in the entire world, that at this moment wished him well. That thought of him, not as Jaskier the bard, but just as Jaskier. Who knew him, and wanted to know him, and would wonder in idle thought how he was, where he was, when they would meet again. 

He’d known this for a while, of course. Though he excelled at putting on a pleasant face, this feeling of malaise had shadowed him since adolescence. Even at his lowest, he’d chattered and teased and flirted as if he had not a care in the world. This wasn’t out of self-preservation; it wasn’t even a conscious effort sometimes. He just knew that no one would care. Any decent person would put on airs, of course. If he’d told an acquaintance his true feelings, some would try to say the right thing, whatever that was, but no one would truly care. To care, they would have to care about Jaskier. And he knew, in his heart, that no one did. 

Some cared about his songs. Others cared about the pleasures he could bring to their beds. His family had cared whether he continue the family line, and when it became clear that he would not he’d heard not a word from anyone sharing his surname. They wouldn’t blink an eye if word reached them of his death. And though perhaps some would feel a faint sense of grief, perhaps some former students, or those he knew during his own studies at Oxenfurt, no one would really mourn. The world be better off, most likely. Or, at least, it would be no different.

So now he walked steadily down the mountain, solitary and content. He would reach the town from which they’d set off by sundown the next day, and he would it end it. Jaskier didn’t feel a sense of urgency, or fear, as he’s expected to. Instead, he felt as if he was soaking up his last experiences; enjoying them, but ready to say goodbye. He was on his last trek to a town that would welcome a bard. He would rent a room at the same inn at which they’d stayed before departing. He would offer to sing a few songs, and he could bring a bit of joy to others one last time.

And then he would finally rest.

The hours passed quickly and quietly as he walked, lute strapped to his back. He set up camp when the sun set, and settled down to sleep. His mind was clear and untroubled, and he drifted off quickly. He rose with the sun the next morning, and left his belongings, everything except his lute, his bag of coin, his water skein, and, of course, his potion, behind. He wouldn’t be needing any of it.

When he reached town, he stopped at a small bakery on his way to the inn and chose a fresh cherry pastry as his dinner. After all, he no longer needed to think of either his health or his waistline. He made his way to the inn and spoke with the proprietor, who quickly agreed to provide him with a room if he sang a few songs. Jaskier also arranged for a bath to be brought up later that night, for he knew that would be his last treat to himself.

And so, he played. He set up in the corner where everyone in the dining room could see him, and he played joyously for hours. He sang songs that had everyone else shouting along with him, stomping their feet; some songs were requested by the crowd, and he obliged happily. He sang until his throat ached and his voice was hoarse, despite having downed his fourth complimentary ale. 

At last, the night was over. Customers headed home, or upstairs to their rooms, and Jaskier heaved a great sigh, the smile on his face bittersweet but true. This had a been a good night. 

He gathered all of the coin he’d earned that night and placed it in the jar on the bar top for tipping the servers, then he went upstairs to his room. As he opened the door, a young woman walked out, a large pitcher in her arms. Jaskier nodded to her, a smile on his face, and she blushed as he passed her. His bath was freshly filled and steaming.

Jaskier moved purposefully around the room, unhurried. He placed his clothes neatly on the chair by the desk, folding each item carefully. Naked, he drifted to the window, looking out at the last few people wandering home, and the lights within the houses along the street flickering in the windows. There were families within those houses. People who loved each other. He’d never truly known what that felt like. To love, and be loved in return. And now he never would.

He was okay with that, in the end. Better to have control over this last act, to know that the choice was his and no one else’s. He wouldn’t be mourned, but maybe it was better that way. He wouldn’t be leaving devastation in his wake. Other than the poor server who would undoubtedly discover his body at some point tomorrow, he wouldn’t be inconveniencing anyone considerably. Hopefully the coin he left downstairs would offset any discomfort his passing would cause the innkeeper. 

Jaskier moved to the bath, bringing the bar of soap provided by the inn and placed on the side table with him. He scrubbed himself clean slowly, leisurely, and then leaned against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes and allowing his mind to rest. He searched for any changes within, any thoughts that might indicate he didn’t want to go through with this, and found none. All he felt, at the end, was peace in his decision. He was ready.

Standing, Jaskier stepped out of the bath and toweled himself dry. He moved to the bed and laid down, still naked, covering himself with the blanket to spare whoever discovered him tomorrow. He took the potion he’d placed on the side table, and uncorked it. Sitting up slightly so as not to spill it, Jaskier took one last deep inhale, smiling as he let out his breath.

In the end, he realized, he’d spoken not a word since his last song, for there was nothing left to say. He thought briefly of soliloquizing to himself, saying his one last goodbye to this empty room. But he was done—thinking, feeling, speaking.

He downed the potion in one swallow.


End file.
